


Mire

by wednesday



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-27
Updated: 2017-08-27
Packaged: 2018-12-17 12:11:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11851323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wednesday/pseuds/wednesday
Summary: The third time Roche wakes up he's not in anymore pain than on any regular day. Seeing as the last memories he has are of being in agony and dying, this is surprising and puts him on edge immediately.





	Mire

**Author's Note:**

  * For [neverminetohold](https://archiveofourown.org/users/neverminetohold/gifts).



> The awesome nancymilk has translated this story in Chinese here: http://lvksniunaijiang.lofter.com/post/1f605922_eeaa1c5b

The first time Roche wakes up, he doesn't wake up at all. Pain jolts through him like a red streak and he tries to claw his way to consciousness, but all he manages to reach is a few moments of torment and a dizzy-sick weightless feeling, like falling too fast.

The second time he's closer to wakefulness, but the pain is worse, and he knows rather pragmatically that he's absolutely going to die very soon. It's a wonder it hasn't happened already, and if he could concentrate enough to think, he’d feel at most vaguely resigned.

He feels something touch his face, light and cool, and a spreading coldness slithers down his throat. The relief lasts a short moment and then he realizes he's never before felt real pain. Strong hands hold him down and he must scream, but he can't hear himself over the fire and broken glass rushing through his veins, his ears, his fingertips, his lungs.

The third time Roche wakes up he's not in anymore pain than on any regular day. Seeing as the last memories he has are of being in agony and dying, this is surprising and puts him on edge immediately.

He’s not superstitious enough to take this for some kind of afterlife, especially since the most pressing sensation he has is the itch from the heavy wool blanket covering him. It feels scratchy everywhere it touches his skin, which is how he knows he’s only wearing pants, not even a shirt. He can barely remember when he last slept so close to naked, not a piece of armor on him.

It takes several minutes thinking in circles, trying to ignore the unbearable itch of fabric against skin until it occurs to him to open his eyes.

There’s embers of a small fire casting light across the clearing he’s apparently sleeping in. The only remarkable thing in sight is the man kneeling a few feet away, eyes closed and unnaturally still. If Roche were at all poetic, he’d say the starlight is making him glow, but he’s no damned elf, so he tries not to think it. Instead he sits up quietly and looks around for his weapons.

Or, he tries, but the result is extremely underwhelming – he gets about halfway up before his hands give out and he falls back down with a muffled shout.

The ground seems suddenly much harder than when he was sleeping on it, and it takes him a moment to get his breath back.

“Roche,” says the man, “You’re awake.”

For a mad instant Roche has to fight to not laugh about the idea he could have done anything at all stealthily enough to escape _his_ notice.

“Geralt,” he says, voice strangely _not_ hoarse. He’s sure he vaguely remembers screaming enough to lose voice altogether. “What--” he tries to ask, but has to clear his throat and then clear it again and everything tastes so insufferably like sand that he starts coughing.

Geralt—and he has no idea how he didn’t recognize him immediately—gets up in a single smooth move and takes the two steps towards Roche. Calloused hands grip his shoulders surprisingly softly and Geralt helps him sit up and a moment later sinks down right beside Roche. He’s so close Roche has no option but to lean against him.

“Here,” Geralt says and presses a warm hand to Roche’s back and a waterskin to Roche’s mouth, “drink.”

Roche swallows a couple of mouthfuls of water, tries to hold the waterskin on his own, but his hands shake too badly. Geralt keeps holding the water for a long while, steady and calming against the rising panic of not being in control of his own body. Until now Roche has never been injured badly enough to be unable to lift his own sword, and his only plan for the inevitable occasion was to be dead.

After drinking his fill he takes a few breaths and tries again. “What happened?”

“The second werewolf. It transformed in daylight,” Geralt says, but he hesitates for a moment too long.

“Fuck. Of course it did,” Roche says and exhales sharply, memories of an ugly hulking beast, a jaw full of sharp teeth and pain and black claws dripping blood and--

“Breathe,” Geralt says and the warm hand sliding up to his shoulder-blades leaves him no choice but to comply. Except, he remembers enough to know this makes no sense.

“Why am I alive?”

“I came back to investigate and got to the house in time. Figured there was no way one werewolf did all of it,” Geralt says. His voice is steady, and it sounds like the thing he’d do – come back to make sure the job was done. And yet. _Something._

“I’m not in any pain,” Roche says and watches Geralt’s face without even trying to hide it. Geralt, already drawn and unusually expressionless, manages to lose even more color.

“You’ve been out of it for a while. A week,” Geralt elaborates, still stubbornly neutral, and it explains the weakness, but by now Roche knows he’s hiding something.

“Horseshit!” he says sharply, and Geralt startles and for a moment he looks afraid. But it’s Geralt, what would he possibly be scared of. Roche’s half convinced witchers aren’t even able to feel afraid like regular mortals. “Tell me what’s going on!”

He feels unsteady, unsure if any of what he remembers from between the injury and now was real, but the claws-- He should be dead. He remembers the feeling of being stabbed through a lung, blood flowing out bright and bubbly. There is no help in the world that could have saved him from an injury like that. None.

Geralt keeps looking at him guarded like he expects something, and Roche has no idea what. The air between them grows more tense the longer the silence lasts. Somewhere in the woods an animal shrieks and startles them both out of their uneasy moment. Roche turns towards the sound on instinct, but of course he can’t see a thing.

Except.

The embers of the fire have almost turned to ash and despite the moonless sky Roche can see the trees at the other side of the clearing and the shrubbery further away, and even the horse quietly grazing dozens of feet away.

He turns back to Geralt so fast he almost falls over again, the only thing holding him up the hand Geralt still has on his back. Geralt, who he can see clear as day.

“ _What did you do?_ ” he asks, demands.

Geralt doesn’t answer right away, only sighs tiredly. “It’s. Nothing bad,” he says, but pauses too long between words. Roche lets out a sharp laugh.

“I expected you to be at least _a little_ better at lying. I was an interrogator,” he reminds Geralt. Like he could have fucking forgotten that one time he was whipped in the castle dungeons.

Geralt only stares back silently, pupils unusually blown, almost human, and Roche’s always had to force himself to look right into their unnatural brightness. For a moment he considers this might be the closest they’ve ever been, sitting almost on top of each other. It’s distracting, and he hates feeling grateful for the hand supporting him still.

“So, what happened? Am I like that creature? A vampire? A ploughing plague maiden?” he asks, voice rough with suppressed panic. He just. Needs to know what this is, why he’s out in the woods alone and with a witcher waiting for him to wake up.

“I wasn’t going to let you die,” Geralt says like a decree, like he has any right to the final word.

Roche exhales slowly through his nose the better to stop himself from shouting. He doesn’t think a single person has ever won a fight against Geralt of Rivia by shouting. Not that this is even a fight, not yet.

“So. Not human.”

“You’re human enough,” Geralt says sharply, louder and finally with anger in his face. “You--”

“No one’s human _enough_ , unless they’re _human_. You of all people know this, witcher,” he says, maybe too bitter because being human isn’t always enough either.

Geralt looks like he wants to argue, but stays silent. A few silent moments later he leans across the short inches separating them and rests his forehead against Roche’s. Roche refuses to be surprised by this as well. He keeps calm by matching his exhales to the hot breaths against his face.

“You’re human enough,” Geralt whispers urgently in the small space between them and presses their lips together before Roche can even consider what to say. The kiss stretches out in the stillness of the night, a cool press and slide of lips against his own.

He might be losing his touch, too distracted by everything to think of asking _why_ wouldn’t Geralt just let him die.

 

 

 

 


End file.
